This Sort of Thing Always Unfolds in a Tavern
by Reb Argotier
Summary: Not really sure what this is about just yet. But there's Javert. And banter. Please Read and Review.


There were three men and four candles at a table.

The candles did little to improve the sultry atmosphere, which had been permeated by tobacco smoke, drunken breath and foul language. The men themselves had practically become infused into the oily air, they were so indistinguishable from the

rest of the first-class patrons of L'ouiseau Noir Auberge.

"Let me give you some advice," said the skeleton man at the center of the table, who was leaning with cat-like simplicity against the cracked plaster. His attention was directed to the man on the left, the youngest among them, who had occupied an

entire bench for himself; his left leg swinging lazily off the edge of the seat, his right foot planted squarely on the fading wooden plank. Fixed in his vice-like grip was a small guitáro, which he was attempting to hold with as much poetic grace as he

could muster. "Firstly, Laurent, it's a guitar. Not a gun." This man, Laurent, made a face and loosened his hold on the instrument considerably. "Secondly, you've been trying to tune that all night. Give it a rest, or I'll be forced to take drastic

measures."

"It's _his_ fault, not mine!" insisted Laurent, pointing to the third man, who had been using a large finger to trace shapes from a small puddle of wine on the table. The third man stopped, an amused look on his face.

"My fault?" His voice was a welcoming baritone, and was reminiscent of a sea shanty or a good joke.

"Oui, Daron, yours." said Laurent with mock conviction. "These new strings are shit, and you're the one who told me where to find them." Laurent pulled a pipe out from one of the folds of his jacket and tucked it between his lips. Daron

promptly reached across the table and plucked it out.

"I told you the strings were cheap," he laughed, "not that they were good. And, as for this," he said, tapping the bowl of the pipe into his palm, "I thought we agreed- no more."

"Oui, _Daron_," Laurent swung himself around so that both of his feet were situated under the table and tucked the guitar under his seat. Robbed of his tobacco, he contented himself with a glass of the noxious, purple-red wine. "Drink, Monsieur

Javert?" The man sitting in the middle, Javert, an ex-soldier by trade and Rroma by birth, raised an eyebrow at Laurent in reply.

"Remind me again how you know this dinlo(1), Daron- Kon si kako(2)?" He said, with an expression of comic interest on his face. At this, he rested his angular chin between his thumb and two of his spindle fingers.

"Múrre mashtivo-shav." Daron began, "Samas o ch-(3)"

Suddenly, Daron was interrupted, not by Laurent's obvious look of frustration, but by a powerful voice and a warm hand on his shoulder.

"So," said the new arrival; a large man by all accounts, with a shock of wild, blonde hair."They do it to you too, do they?"

"Bonsoir, Mec!" Both Daron and Allan stood to take the Mec's hand, before sitting again. The Mec pulled up a chair, which looked rather unreliable in its rickety state, and sat backwards so that his chin was resting upon the back and his knees

were splayed on either side of the seat, his feet resting on their heels.

"What is the menu tonight?" he asked, surveying Laurent with feigned disinterest, only allowing his eyes to linger for a moment, every now and again.

Apart from the more obvious- young, poor, single, red-ish hair, green eyes, average stature- there were a few interesting possibilities which he began to toy with. He was a tobacco addict, which was done easily enough. After all, it was almost

impossible to miss the yellow tinge on the left thumb and first two fingers. Left handed then, it would seem. Newly hired in... a blacking factory. Oui, that'd make sense. Daron was good friends with Jean-Claude, the foreman at that place over on

the Rue L'chat Sommiel.

"We were waiting on you," replied Dupard.

"Ah! My apologies for running so late." The new arrival was still trying to decide whether Laurent was really only overly fond of fish, or if it had been the only thing that the Madame from the market had been giving him, the past day or two.

"We were getting worried," Dupard said with a sarcastic smile, "You're normally so punctual."

The Mec waved it off and peered (openly, now) at Laurent. "Well. Since we are waiting for the good server to take our order... tell me, Henri Laurent. How long has it been- two, three years- since your escape from the bagnes?"

_____

1. 'Idiot' (Kalderash)

2. 'Who is this man to you?' (Kalderash)

3. 'My "step-son." Used to be-' (Kalderash)

((A note on the language: I'm learning, myself. Any mistakes that anyone happens to know of, tell me. After being thoroughly embarrassed for about a month, I'll manage to drag myself back to change it.))

So, this is just a little something I've started, not really sure where it'll go, or if it'll continue. Depends upon the response. Please, feel free to leave your thoughts, even if its just to say that you hate me and want to burn my writing.


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